


Just Like Old Times

by Wetislandinthenorthatlantic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet, Cold War, Espionage, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29087658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/pseuds/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic
Summary: This is a cheeky "fake-date" tucked into an espionage fic. The Cold War is back - for one night only - and guess who needs a date.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 28
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallmeIvv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallmeIvv/gifts).



> Hello! This was a request for @CallmeIvv- who wanted a fake date with a beautiful dress and a little twist. Enjoy!
> 
> This fic has loads of small chapters; that's just how it ended up. 
> 
> Centre = KGB HQ   
> Circus = British Secret Service (thank you John le Carre)
> 
> I do not own these characters. This work is for entertainment only,

I am sitting in my office reviewing the working document on climate initiatives when the phone rings.

Not the small black modern phone system that sits on my desk’s corner predominantly used as an intercom between myself and Anthea; No, THE phone.

The one that hasn’t rung for years. It sat silent for so long that at some point, I asked for it to be removed.

My request was denied.

Specific protocols had been set up donkey’s years ago that couldn’t be transferred to the new system. Instead, with its rotary dial on a black bakelite pyramid, the old beast was relegated to a shelf in the corner.

When the old bells began to chime, I jumped; it has been years since I last heard that nostalgic sound.

It must be a mistake I think; caused by the old wires fraying. There is a small knot of concern in my stomach which I try to ignore as I bring the receiver to my ear. The possibility this is not a mistake is almost too much to comprehend.

Through the plaited headset cord comes the voice, which I know is a recording. With perfect Received Pronunciation, it sounds like a BBC reader from the 1950s. The gentleman who recorded it originally is probably dead by now. 

“You have left a file in the conference room. Please retrieve it immediately.”

The knot in my stomach grows tighter as I sigh and deposit the receiver back in its cradle.

It must be a mistake. But, still, a mistake that can’t be ignored. With a final glance down to my desk and the urgent paperwork, which has now dropped a few rungs of significance, I pick up the large paper takeaway cup and prepare to investigate.

“What was that noise?” Anthea asks as I pass by her desk.

“It was an alert from an old internal communications system.” I try to make my reply nonchalant while my brain is churning through the possible reasons why this has happened.

She is staring at the cup in my hand.

“You don’t usually wander around with your tea.”

“I’m not letting a perfectly good cup of tea grow cold while I check to make sure it is nothing.”


	2. Chapter 2

Lady Smallwood has arrived before me. Her reading glasses are perched on the end of her nose, and there is a pencil stuck into her white bun of hair. An old habit of hers when going through case files. I clear my throat and flick my chin up. She mouths thanks as she pulls the writing utensil out of her hair.

Taking a drink from my cup, I look around. It has been a long time since I was summoned to this room.

The walls are bare brick with metal pipes running around the ceiling, snaking off to other parts of the building. Once upon a time, it contained dozens of radio transmitters and receivers— the best in the world. Now, only three analogue radio setups remain. Plastic sheets covered with a film of dust rest on two machines, while the third has been uncovered and is bleeping away.

Edwin arrives, breathless, dressed in shorts and athletic top bearing the Queen’s Club’s crest, carrying his real tennis racket.  
“Have you started yet?” His eyes take in the room as mine did.  
Lady Smallwood and I both shake our heads. She clears her throat.  
“Warrant Officer Beale, now that we are all assembled, please explain what is happening.”

The operator sitting in front of the radio set pulled off his headset. As he pushed back the chair, it made a scraping sound on the floor; the wheels had stopped working years ago. He picked up the pad of paper and stood at attention as he faced us.

I took another sip of tea. This was dragging on, and I was beginning to lose interest.

The boy, honest to god, are we recruiting secondary school children these days? - his chin up, eyes focused on a spot above our heads replied in the standard clipped military tone.

“Ma’am, I have a message for Antarctica Ma’am.”  
He held out a sheet of paper straight in front of him.  
“Apologies Ma’am. I do not know-”

Well, this just got interesting.

Lady Smallwood, Edwin and I shared a glance before I reached out and took the paper. Warrant Officer Beale lowered his arm.  
On the sheet were lines of numbers in groups of four digits, perfectly formed, written in pencil. 

“Beale, how do you know this is for Antarctica?” Lady Smallwood was frowning at the radio operator.

“That part wasn’t in code ma’am. ‘Message for Antarctica’ was transmitted in English before the traditional Soviet cypher. Decryption needs a one-time pad. But ma’am we do not have-”

“Whoever sent this knows the last one-time pad we had was used as scrap paper for some admin to write phone messages on over thirty years ago,” I add before taking another drink of my tea.

“Is this real?” Edwin is addressing the young man. “How did we even know to pick this up?”

“Sir, we routinely monitor the old analogue channels. The things we pick up are usually nothing- a weather report or greeting. But this one wanted to be received, sir. ‘Message for Antarctica’ was sent on repeat for an hour before the message. It gave us time to get the machine sorted out, sir.”

I took another drink from my cup, tipping back my head and draining the contents.

By now, when I look at the paper, the numbers have rearranged themselves into letters. Although it is masquerading as a Soviet Cypher what I hold in my hands, back in the day, would hardly give an intermediate level agent pause.

“Right. Someone wants a phone call.” I announce to the room.  
Warrant Officer Beale is overcome and speaks out of turn.  
“You decoded that already? How?” His eyes are large and questioning. I don’t scold him, instead simply reply “Yes.”

I’ll make the phone call from the comfort of the more modern command room not here. The dust is beginning to irritate my eyes. Lady Smallwood and Edwin follow me as I head for the door.

I call over my shoulder to Warrant Officer Beale.

“You may come as well. There will be no more radio messages today.”


	3. Chapter 3

The command room was buzzing with the usual soft click of mechanical keyboards. Most of the illumination of the room is coming from the myriad of computer screens.

I settle myself into the sizable high-backed chair in the middle of the long table facing the floor to ceiling bank of screens. My companions sit on either side of me.

Without hesitation, I pull the keyboard towards me and begin typing. The agency logo, which had been twisting and bouncing around on the video screens, is replaced with a large map of Europe covering all of the screens.

Soon a throbbing red dot has settled on London and when I hit enter the sound of a phone dialing fills the room. A red line comes out from the dot on London and travels east until it stops on the Black Sea coast. Here another red dot appears and begins to throb as the phone call is answered. One of the smaller video screens shows a detailed satellite image of the Black Sea area while another screen shows the street map view.

“Ah, Antarctica. How good of you to call.”

The voice has a thick Russian accent.

“Anatoly, how are you?” I force myself to sound relaxed while wondering why in the world, he is contacting me this way.

“I am well, my friend. Except I can’t look at the bottle of Port you left behind without getting a headache.”

Last summer I spent a long weekend with Anatoly and his wife at his dacha. We spent the first evening drinking Port and reminiscing, and the second day recovering.

“And you Mycroft? How are you?”

These forced pleasantries are concerning. We never speak like this to each other. And He never calls me Mycroft. The audience for this conversation will be more than those seated around me. I decide the best action is to be direct. 

“I am keeping well. Did I miss your motherland banning WhatsApp? You have my number, Anatoly. If you wanted a chat, you could have just rung my mobile. This palaver is entirely unnecessary.”

The phone line has travelled through a minimum of four satellites yet is still clear enough that his sigh makes my heart rate increase with concern. Something is not right.

“It’s Centre.”

“What do you mean? Centre ceased to exist nearly 30 years ago.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Edwin has clenched his jaw and his eyes, filled with unease, are staring at me.

“I know Misha. But someone decided our new generation of recruits need to have a simulation-”

It’s my turn to sigh heavily; my mind churning with the implications of what Anatoly is saying.

“Centre has asked me to organise a field exercise, so these new ones can practice doing observations, making contact, passing messages- the very basic of things. They are such children now, these new recruits of ours.”

As I glance over to Warrant Officer Beale, I wonder if he knows we are talking about him in front of his face.

“I can assure you, it is the same here. The only fieldwork arenas our fresh recruits are familiar with are Fortnight and Minecraft. 

Warrant Officer Beale’s eyes meet my gaze before they dip, his cheeks colour from the truth. In an instant, I understand what is going on.

“Anatoly, are you ringing to request a sort of playdate?”

Lady Smallwood is sitting to my right, and I can tell by the shifting in her chair how much this is irritating her. She will already be calculating how much this boondoggle is going to cost us

My Russian friend is now chuckling.

“I did not know the name for it but yes Misha, that is exactly what I want. It is for them not for us, eh? Let these new ones see what we used to do.”

“What are Centre’s plans?”

“The Bolshoi Ballet is travelling to London at the end of this month. We will also send some agents over, and when I say ‘agents’—” The room filled with the sound of Anatoly’s hearty chuckle.

“Fine. Circus will organise a group to give chase — to make it more interesting for your crew.”

It is challenging to keep the trepidation out of my voice. Anatoly’s request was highly irregular, but there wasn’t an adequate reason not to oblige. And, of course, he would owe me one. 

“I knew you would understand my friend. The Centre will be very pleased. It’s just like old times ‘eh?”

“It won’t be the same without sharing a drink with you at the end of the evening,” I reply.

Back in the day, Anatoly was the best agent handler on his side, and when he was in the field, I knew my team, and I would be given a run for our money.

He and I have always respected each other’s abilities. During those long, tense years, after our cabals had been officially dismantled, a sort of kinship developed between us. We always managed to remain civil. In fact, he was the one who dropped me outside that filthy hospital in Kabul after one of his men accidentally shot me in the leg. 

“Today, I am putting a bottle of my best vodka in the freezer for your next visit. We will leave your bottle of Port and its headaches.”

“I look forward to it Anatoly. Give my love to Sasha.”

Anatoly hung up the phone; causing, the points and the red line to vanish, leaving only the map on the screen.

I looked at Edwin and Lady Smallwood. Even in this light, I could see much of the colour had drained from their faces.

Our focus had shifted en masse to cyber warfare on the dissolution of Centre. We figured the days of agents on the ground were long over- which remained true, until three minutes ago. The challenge Anatoly had given us was far more significant than he imagined. 

“Do either of you have any ideas where I can find some field-ready agents in three weeks?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

They didn’t.


	4. Chapter 4

“What is the matter with you?”

The question pulls me out of my head and back into St Bart’s. I have been in a quandary for days now trying to devise a palatable solution to an uncomfortable situation.

Custom would dictate I have a companion for the field exercise. It is hardly appropriate for a gentleman to attend the ballet on his own. I need to blend in.

But, while other men might find the possibility of having one of our young and fresh-faced staff members on his arm tantalising, I don’t. The idea of making small talk with someone who was in primary school the last time I was in the field is unappealing. I’m going to have enough to deal with on that particular evening. I don’t need to add babysitting to my list of duties.

“Apologies,” I half-heartedly mutter while reaching for the clipboard Molly is handing me. My hand snakes into my breast pocket for a pen. She knows I will refuse any writing utensil she offers me preferring my own.

“Is Sherlock okay? I know it’s hard to predict, but I was thinking about inviting my sister down for the weekend, so if you think something is about to kick-off, it would be nice to know. Then she won’t have a wasted trip.” There was hope in Molly’s voice that I have some ability for precognition when it comes to my brother- I wish I did.

The sigh I emit is deep, and I am surprised to hear the truth come out of my mouth.

“This is not Sherlock. It’s work.

“Oh,” Molly’s face fell. “I’m sure I can’t help with anything about that. But you’ll be fine. I’m sure there is some paper to read or expert to talk to before- whatever. Do you have a meeting you don’t want to go to? Because I have this trick-”

Such innocence. It’s oddly refreshing after spending my days surrounded by people who all have ulterior motives.

“I have to go to the ballet.”

“Really? Which one? I love the ballet and haven’t been in ages.”

“Swan Lake.”

“OHHHH!” I am startled by the squeal Molly emits; she is now effervescent with excitement. Words begin to tumble out of her mouth. 

“Is it the production by the Bolshoi at the end of the month? The tickets are like gold dust. I tried, but they were all sold out by the time I logged into the website. I’ve always wanted to see the Bolshoi.” Molly sighed with a wistful gaze on her face.

While scanning the report on the clipboard, I do my best to ignore Molly’s eagerness about the ballet.

“It’s not that exciting. It’s for work, and I need someone to attend the event with me.”

“Like an escort?”

I don’t like the brightness in Molly’s tone.

“Yes, like an escort but definitely  _ not _ an escort.” My eyes flick up to meet hers, imploring her to stop this tangent- now.

“Well, I’m sure there are lots of people you can choose from-”

“Not really. The obvious choice is Anthea, but she has other duties that evening. No one at work is suitable, and it will come as no surprise, I do not have a wide circle of friends.”

“Well, if it would help, I’ll go with you.”

Her words stop my rumination. For the first time in days, the pressure in my head is gone.

“What did you say?”

“I can go with you. I’d get to see the ballet, and you would have your plus one. It would suit us both. It’s not like it would be a real date or anything.” Molly’s words are filled with hope.

The idea sloshes around in my brain trying to find a reason to dissuade her.

The evening is more role play than anything else considering most of our team could only be viewed as field agents by someone who has never actually encountered one previously.

Molly’s high-security clearance would certainly cover this sort of thing.

And sharing the Circus box with someone who actually  _ wanted _ to be there was much more preferable than being accompanied by someone who had been assigned to sit next to me.

I nod my head. It is an excellent solution.

“I believe this arrangement will benefit us both. Anthea will be in touch with further details.”

This brings out a full smile on Molly’s face. She clutches the clipboard to her chest and gives a little bounce of excitement.

I will myself not to have second thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

My hair is still damp from my shower as I work on my tie. The left loop on my bow is slightly bigger than the right, and it is irritating me. I am standing in front of the full-length mirror in my office adjusting it when Anthea comes in.

“You will be sitting in the Circus box located on Second Tier of the Royal Albert Hall. It has seats for five, but you and Molly will be the only occupants. You will have a line of sight to the three Loggia Boxes Centre has booked from this position. Three safe houses have been prepared.”

I meet her gaze in the mirror.

“I know you like to be thorough, but I doubt that is necessary.”

She continues undeterred. We have protocols, and she is following them.

“Circus will have a dozen agents throughout the venue. They are as ready as they will ever be.”

“Which I take to mean as completely unprepared.”

Finally, my tie is fixed, and I turn to face Anthea.

“We can be thankful this is only an exercise.” She adds while picking a piece of lint off my shoulder.

Pulling on my shirt cuffs, I nod in agreement as I begin my review.

“My role this evening is of the handler. I shall oversee but not intervene unless absolutely necessary. Tonight we will be using the default code system. Nothing complex. Our agents have enough on their plates.”

“I will monitor the radio traffic and cameras. Are you picking up Molly?”

“No. We are meeting at the venue.”

I’ve turned back to the mirror to recheck my tie.

“And she is ready for tonight?”

Using the heels of my hands, I smooth down the sides of my hair before I shrug my shoulders.

“We spoke last week. I told her dress code is black tie. She said she would get a cocktail dress from her sister. All she has to do is sit and enjoy the ballet. She texted earlier and said she was excited.”

“Are you going out to dinner after?”

“No. This is not a date.”

Although Anthea replied with an ‘Okay’, I know that she does not believe me by the smirk on her face.


	6. Chapter 6

Walking up the South Steps of the Royal Albert Hall, I glance around at the other soon-to-be-members of tonight’s audience. While passing through the gathering crowd, I spot at least seven Centre agents. Although most had attempted some disguise, I could still match them with the pack of dossier photos kindly provided by Anatoly.

I take a modicum of comfort in discovering Centre’s agents are as green as ours are.

The foyer is full. People are congregating in twos and fours. Positing myself to the left of the door, I scan the room looking for Molly. My height is a distinct advantage in these sorts of situations.

In my mind’s eye, Molly has on something ill-fitting that had seen better days before her sister offered it to her. As an older sibling, I know how these things work.

First sweep of the room done and no sign of Molly.

Second sweep of the room done and still nothing.

I let out an irritated sigh. The last thing I need tonight is to have the schedule thrown off before the evening begins. I only have 17 minutes to take up my position.

“Mycroft!”

Hearing my name, I turn towards it. Giving me a little wave, and walking towards me is a woman I don’t recognise.

My brain begins to churn, looking for answers: Who is this woman? How do I deal with this intrusion?  _ Where is Molly? _

I watch as this unknown female effortlessly weaves through the crowd in a pair of Prussian Blue t-bar open court shoes with a four-inch heel. The colour is a perfect match to the fabric of the dress. 

The full skirt is high-low and drapes elegantly over her figure. Coupled with the shoes, it gives a rather pleasant view of the wearer’s toned calves and slim ankles.

Two bands of beads in the same hue as the dress circle the defined waistline and edge the sweetheart neckline. While the fitted bodice is modest in its coverage, it does manage to expertly define the woman’s breasts without being vulgar.

The three quarter length sleeves leave her delicate, bare, wrists exposed. In one hand is a small clutch, the other is waving at me.

While the dress designer isn’t apparent, it hardly matters, the dress fits the woman like a second skin.

Gleaning no clues about the owner from the dress itself I look at the face and try again.

_ Oh my god _ . My mouth goes dry, and I feel an odd flutter in my stomach.  _ It’s Molly _ .

She has now reached me.

“Oh, no. Is the dress, okay? You look upset.” Molly’s happy smile has disappeared.

“Apologies,” I mutter like an oaf while forcing a smile. “I was a million miles away. I didn’t recognise you — without your lab coat.”

“My formal lab coat is at the cleaners, so I decided to wear this instead.” Molly smiles up at me, and my heart swells uncomfortably in my chest.

“You said this was not a date but does this need to look like a date?” Molly is glancing around the room.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well if it were a date I would greet you with a kiss — like this-”

Molly took another step closer to me, laying her hand gently on my chest, she arched her neck while raising up further onto her toes, her heels coming off the ground. My hand instinctively slips around her waist to steady her as she presses her cheek against the side of my chin, making a kissing noise. 

This simple gesture sucks all the air out of my lungs, and I feel lightheaded.

There is a small beep deep in my ear before I hear Anthea’s voice.

“Does  _ she _ know this isn’t a date?”

I glare in the direction of the tiny camera tucked into the far corner of the foyer. Anthea gives a small chuckle in response.

“Shall we go and book our interval drinks?” I offer Molly my elbow and scramble to think of some small talk that will take up the distance to the Laurent-Perrier Champagne Bar.


	7. Chapter 7

Glancing between Molly and the audience below I take a quiet deep breath attempting to refocus myself.

Once we arrived in our box, Molly insisted I move our chairs closer together to further the impression of our “date”. She highlighted couples in other boxes who had made similar adjustments. So here we sit; with our thighs touching. Taking out my handkerchief, I blot my brow. This venue typically has excellent ventilation, but tonight it seems much warmer than usual.

Molly turns to me and lays a hand on my arm, giving it a small squeeze. Her eyes are twinkling, and there has been a smile on her face since we sat down.

“This is so lovely. Thank you.” She leans in and whispers in my ear. “It’s okay. You can put your arm around me, or we can hold hands. You know- to make this look real.”

As it caressed my ear, the warmth of her breath causes me to shift in my seat to ease the pulsing knot that had appeared in my stomach.

Moments after the house lights dim, Molly slips her small hand into mine, lacing our fingers together. Its warmth surprises me.

I can’t remember the last time I had this much sustained skin contact, and it’s quite difficult to remember I’m here for work- not to enjoy the performance.

With the ballet as a backdrop, my attention is on the dance between the Circus and Centre agents. Despite my best efforts, I feel a sense of paternal pride welling in my chest as I watch my agents step up to the challenge and foil various rudimentary plots and schemes attempted by their opposition.


	8. Chapter 8

After intermission, with Molly off to the loo, I find myself alone in my vantage point. Slowly flipping the pages of the programme, I review the last fifteen minutes.

While I stood in the Champagne Bar chatting with Molly, all of the Circus agents managed to check-in surreptitiously; confirming the exercise was going well. The first act had contained a few small hiccups, but I had not anticipated a night free of these. One more act — then job done. With any luck, this means I can tick the ‘Fieldwork’ box for the final time.

Thus far for me, the most unsettling discovery of the night has been Molly’s enchanting giggle when the champagne bubbles tickle her nose. The lyrical sound seemed to amplify the effects of my glass of fizz; making it feel like I had drunk considerably more.

My head remains fuzzy, and my heart rate is still slightly raised. Odd, but it’s probably all down to stress.

I am surprised when the house lights dim; followed by a pang of regret. I glance back towards the door to the box, expecting to see Molly appear, but she doesn’t. My mind fills in the blanks: slow-moving queue for the ladies, she’ll miss the opening of the second act.

Thoughts of taking her to the ballet again, to ensure she sees the entirety of Act Two come flooding into my mind unbidden.

The overture finishes, _Danse de fançailles_ begins, and I can feel myself getting both concerned and slightly irritated.

Molly might have taken ill. I should go and investigate, but protocol dictates I should not leave my post. Given this is an exercise with a former foe, the possibility of something requiring the intervention of a senior agent is relatively high. 

Work or woman.

I chastise myself. This is precisely why I don’t do  _ this _ . It is a conundrum with no clear answer.

The soft beep from the tiny radio deep in my ear canal signals a message is about to be sent.

“Centre agents reporting a Circus agent has been captured.”

I signal for a roll call. All of our agents successfully checked in with me during intermission. Something must have happened in the last five minutes.

Moments later, Anthea confirms all of our agents are present and accounted for.

I contemplate calling Anatoly right now. There was never any discussion of capture. And if a pseudo- KGB agent has picked up a member of the general public due to sheer incompetence, the fallout is going to be immense and take years to fix.

The darkness and wall of beautiful sound make me claustrophobic. Shifting in my seat, I drape my arm over the back of the empty chair.

A chill jolts through me as I realise what has happened.

Centre has assumed Molly is an agent- and the top prize tonight because she is with me.

Taking a deep breath to still my racing heart, I slip out of the box and into the brightly lit corridor behind.

The hallway is empty as I sprint towards the nearest women’s WC. I enter, not bothering to knock.

Once inside, I stop and look around. As I expect, its layout is a line of sinks on one side, toilet stalls along the other.

Part of me hopes my assumptions are incorrect; instead, I will find Molly slumped on the floor, head over one of the porcelain bowls retching.

The room is empty. Slowly I walk along the line of cubicles, using one finger to push each door open; my eyes scanning the interior for any sign of anything untoward.

In the second to last stall on the floor near the wall, I find a heel from Molly’s shoe. An enormous scrape and distinct dent are on the metal divider wall.

Pocketing the heel, I feel my blood pumping in my veins. Turning on my radio, I shout to Anthea.

“Message Centre- this was not part of the drill.”

I am absolutely fuming as I stomp through the empty hallways heading to the nearest exit.


	9. Chapter 9

By the time I’m standing next to Kensington Road, I have to work to keep fear at arm’s length. The cars are whooshing in front of me; I’m looking both ways, searching in vain for some indication of what I should do next. Molly isn’t an agent. The usual protocols don’t apply. I am confused and adrift; I dislike being in this state.

Suddenly a small white van, ignoring oncoming traffic takes the near corner at speed, coming to a screeching halt in Kensington Gore. Its side door is sliding open before it comes to a full stop.

Two men, thin, short hair, wearing standard-issue tactical gear, jump out of the van holding Molly between them.

Molly’s arms are stretched out behind her, her feet bare.

“Here,” the man on the left said as he kept hold of Molly and walked towards me.

I note the look on Molly’s face is more determination than fear. Her eyes hold mine as the sound of a sickeningly wet crunch reaches my ears. The man who had spoken let out an anguished howl, his face contorting in pain. A satisfied smirk appears on Molly’s face as the man holds up his hand to his face to examine the pinky finger now hanging limp.

Before I could react, Molly executed a backwards elbow uppercut on the guy to her right, driving her elbow into his rib cage. He dropped to the ground gasping for breath.

Taking two steps forward, I snaked my arm around Molly’s waist, pulling her away from her captors. And not a moment too soon. Molly’s leg, and the dress hem, made a beautiful arc in the air, sure to have connected with the side of a head had I not intervened. 

“Take her away,” begged the one on the right between gasps. “We had her for 15 minutes, and she has broken six fingers, two noses and dislocated three elbows. We thought your agents were unprepared.”

I’m holding Molly against the front of me, her legs still bicycling towards her captors, making me work to keep my balance.

“I can assure you they are. Thank you for returning her.”

The pair hobbled back into their van, the door slid shut, and it sped away.

“What the hell was that?” barked Molly still straining against my grip on her. 

Before I have the chance to answer our extrication team arrives in three black Land Rover Discoveries. Relaxing my grip, two of the Special Forces team pull Molly off me. I too am surrounded, rough grips on my arms and thighs, my feet no longer in contact with the ground. We are swiftly put into one of the vehicles and driven away.


	10. Chapter 10

“How much longer do we have to stay here? I’m fine.”

Molly and I are in a safe house so we can both decompress and come to terms with what has just happened. It’s a tiny one-bed flat in Bloomsbury, and we have been here for two hours and seventeen minutes.

I sit at the breakfast bar, silently watching her as she puts the final sutures into a Clementine skin. After consuming the fruit’s flesh, Molly fished around in her evening clutch, our personal effects from the box were waiting for us here, for her suture kit and set to work on the skin, talking non-stop throughout the procedure.

She is not fine.

My explanation of who had kidnapped her and tonight’s exercise that had been playing out in the Royal Albert Hall did not go down well. I am pleased all of my fingers are still intact- after the takeaway arrived, I feared I would end up in A&E before the day ended. 

The woman who ranted and raged at me, without dropping a morsel from between her chopsticks was not the timid Molly I associate with being drawn into Sherlock’s hair-brained schemes.

With a final tug of the nearly invisible suture, she tossed the small orange fruit to me.

I rolled it over, admiring the craftsmanship.

“You just reconstructed a clementine. I commend your excellent surgical skills.”

Even she could not pretend this was the work of a sane woman. The reality of what she had been through this evening finally became a weight too much to bear, and Molly crumbled before me. 

I handed her my handkerchief and led her to the small sofa, rubbing her back as she wept. After she was all cried out, Molly laid her head on my thigh, falling asleep almost instantly. I draped the blanket from the back of the sofa over her and laid my hand on her hip; a gesture of comfort, not provocation.

After undoing my tie, I worked at the top button of my shirt. Letting out a sigh, I looked down at my charge and shifted slightly to give myself the best possible opportunity for falling asleep.

The truth is I’m not fine either. Would I classify this as shock? Possibly. Tonight’s events certainly have unnerved me. I have spent decades steering well clear of possible romantic entanglements; not wanting to date anyone from work, but fearing the average civilian wouldn’t be able to cope with my reality. And yet tonight-  _ Molly _ .

I close my eyes and lean my head back, letting the soft snoring coming from my lap, lull me to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

The following afternoon I knock on Molly’s front door. Her dress, covered in a flimsy dry cleaners bag, is hanging off my fingers and a box containing a replacement pair of shoes is tucked under my arm.

“Hi, Mycroft.” She gives me a small smile as she lets me in. 

“Your friend has already apologised enough for you both.” Molly gestured to her table which held a huge bouquet, a bottle of vodka and a sizable hamper, next to it sit its contents, tins of caviar, crackers and various other delicacies.

I drape the dress over the back of a chair and exchange the box for a thick cream card she is holding out for me. Embossed with an ornate crest and “Personal Correspondence from the Desk of Anatoly Kuznetsov” is printed in Cyrillic.

The hand-written note contains a groveling apology followed by an invitation to Anatoly’s dacha if Molly ever finds herself near the Black Sea.

“Impressive. I believe you are only the second UK citizen to be extended such an offer.”

“Who is the other?”

“Me,” I replied.

Molly looks at the dress.

“Thanks, but you didn’t need to get it cleaned so quickly. And you replaced my shoes?” she asks without opening up the box.

I nod.

“Honestly you didn’t need to do this. I don’t have any plans anytime soon that need a fancy dress.”

“Oh, I believe you might,” I reply, trying to keep my nerve up. “The Bolshoi is still in town.”

“And? I thought your work thing was last night.”

“It was but you, we, missed the second act.”

Reaching into my breast pocket, I pull out two tickets for this evening’s performance. 


	12. Chapter 12

Molly and I are sitting in the same box that we were in last night. As the house lights come up for the intermission, Molly gives a contented sigh and looks over at me with topaz eyes taking my breath away and making my heart pound at the same time.

“That was just as beautiful as last night. But I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Is your exercise thing still going on?”

“No. That was last night.” I am now concerned she has picked up on something I haven’t.

“Then, why are you holding my hand?” There is an enchanting smirk on her face as she grips my hand tighter, making a quick release due to embarrassment impossible.

I feel my cheeks warm with a blush as I look down to see our fingers are indeed entwined, and her thumb is gently stroking the side of mine. 

Her smirk has grown into a full smile as she gives my hand a final squeeze before letting go.

“Come on. It’s the interval, and I need the loo — and I need you to stand guard outside.”

There is a contented smile on my face as I follow her out into the busy corridor.


End file.
